For the Life of Thi Lin Klein

by Jack Twist

  Chapter 19

  Drink in hand I made my way back through the crowded tables of the Continental. With or without photo and whatever the ordinariness of my life so far, I felt a connection with this American girl and I stopped for a moment in disappointment when I saw her sitting at the same table but with another man.

  He was one of the men in uniform from the nearby table, the one who had been watching us closely. He had thinning blond hair though he wouldn’t have been too much older than I was and he smiled in a self-assured way as he stood to shake my hand.

  “Excuse me. Please. Darren Adams, LA Times.”

  I glanced at Abbie who did not look as comfortable as before. He was still smiling as he sat.

  “I was just saying that you’re a pretty rare sight. Aussie, right?” I nodded as I sat down . “And … Can I ask you both what brings you here?”

  “We were thirsty,” said Abbie.

  “Okay, okay. Tell me this though, please. What’s your position at the embassy? I thought I knew everyone there. Are you new?”His smile broadened. “You look very young for a diplomat.”

  “I’m not a diplomat.”

  “Oh.” He stopped, frowned, looked back to his table and seemed to make a decision. “Would you be the daughter of Mr Jake Klein, the oil man, by any chance?”

  Abbie nodded. “But … I don’t want to be rude, but we were about to leave.”

  “Oh. I figured maybe you were having another drink.” We all looked at my full beer glass. “Could I get you one?”

  “No, thank you. We really don’t want anymore.” She looked at me. “Do we?”

  “No. We were just about to go. After this.”

  He looked at me and then turned back to Abbie. “Oh. Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. But, look, just before you go, could you give me just one moment to clear up a little scuttlebutt that’s going around?” He didn’t let her answer. “I mean, I imagine you know more about the personal side of what’s happened to your father than anyone.”

  When Abbie didn’t answer he went on quickly. “I’ll come to the point, but first, let me say how sorry I was to hear about your father. I hope he’s okay. I mean I don’t know him but there’s enough of our guys taking it without the bastards going after innocent civilians. But, you see, the word is, in some quarters.” He left off for a moment and looked back at his friends again. The one who had come in with him was watching. “There’s a rumour going around, and I’d really like you to clear this with me if you could, that your father had been in contact with some sort of Hanoi connection.” Abbie was staring at him, though she said nothing. “And that it’s about oil. Oil exploration. Maybe oil supply for the future?”

  She was like a cornered bird, her eyes large. “I … I’m just a visitor here. Okay? I came over to see my father. I haven’t been here long and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure. That’s okay. I just meant that if you had heard anything, anything at all, I’d just like to hear from you, his daughter. I mean it’s just a rumour at the moment, and a non-military, side issue, but stories still get written on the basis of rumours and I thought, if you could set the record straight.”

  She shook her head slowly, but he tried once more, speaking very softly. “I mean, if he thinks the communists are a safer bet for the future, he sure isn’t the only one. And I’m sure his intentions are as patriotic as anyone else’s.”

  “My father is a geologist with the oil company and ...” But then she checked herself, looked at me, her eyes asking me for help. Demonstrably, I downed as much of the beer as I could in one drink. “Look, I’m sorry. I can’t help you and we really have to go.”

  “Well I’m sorry too,” said the reporter with what seemed genuine remorse. “Sure. Of course. Just doin’ my job, you know. I mean your father is just a little newsworthy at the moment and I sure hope everything works out for him. Look, if ever you want to talk to me.” He handed her a card which she was slow to take.

  We made our way down the steps and through the sidewalk tables. A group of soldiers walking past all eyed Abbie. We stood there on the pavement for a moment while she stared across the street.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Reporters ... always put the worst slant on things. We’d better be going. Get out of this crowd a bit and look for a Lambretta.”

  She seemed lost in her thoughts as we moved on. “I’m sure my father has done nothing wrong but I wonder if my being here makes it worse for him. All I really want to do is speak to him, make sure he’s okay, sort out what he wants to do with the baby and then go home. Why should that be such a big deal?”

  We passed a bar, just a narrow door with flashing coloured light bulbs over the lintel. Two bar girls lounged at the doorway, one on either side. They stared at Abbie but said nothing. I thought we had escaped when two soldiers lurched from the darkness inside, each with a girl in tow. “Heh, honey,” one shouted at Abbie. “Don’ ah know you from somewhere? Now don’ tell me. Mobile. Yeh, tha’s it.”

  “Yeh,” his friend laughed. “Mobile, Alabama. ‘69.”

  We walked for a few minutes, not speaking, the noise of the traffic, the looks of passing soldiers, an incessant intrusion. The street darkened as we passed under the low hanging branches of a tree and Abbie slowed to a stop.

  “We’d better find somewhere a bit brighter,” I said. “So we can be seen.”

  “I don’t want to be seen, here.”

  “I know, but ...” I looked at her. She was staring out at the frenetic chaos that was Saigon after dusk. She might have been looking at the end of the world. “You okay?”

  Her nod was almost imperceptible. “Tomorrow. I’m worried about tomorrow.” A flood of traffic roared past. “Do you think I’m crazy? Really?”

  “No. I don’t think you’re crazy at all.”

  “People I know, or used to know, would be ashamed of what my father’s done.”

  “They’re not you, Abbie. They don’t know about this place.” I put my arm around her and drew her towards me.

  “I wish you could come with me tomorrow.”

  As we stood there a boy about twelve years old seemed to materialise from the darkness somewhere in the small yard where the tree grew. “Heh, GI.” With Abbie standing against me under the tree he couldn’t see us clearly. “You want acid, man?” He wore jeans and an Hawaiian shirt. “Pure grade. Marijuana? You want a deal, man?”

  We walked away. As we came out from under the tree’s branches, he called out. “Uc dai loi? Uc dai loi number ten fuckin’ cheap charlie asshole. Heh! Uc dai loi!”

  When we hailed another Lambretta it was empty. I decided that this was because it was the oldest, slowest and noisiest operational taxi in the world, but the breeze was refreshing. The driver seemed overjoyed that I wanted to reserve it for us.

  “The American Embassy!” I shouted at him. “And take your time!”

  He nodded vigorously and I put my arm around Abbie, drew her in close and felt her relax against me. The city raged around us but that dangerously decrepit little cab got us to the embassy, probably the least sophisticated vehicle ever to have presented personnel at those famous gates and the guards were not impressed.

  “Just a minute,” Abbie climbed out and ran to the gates. I watched her talking to one of the guards. The driver began with what I presumed was his version of ‘time is money’, although he was still smiling as he spoke. When Abbie climbed back into the vehicle she handed him a dollar note and looking at me she called, “The Continental.” That optimistic glow had returned to her face.

  “What?” I said over the noise of the Lambretta.

  “It’s okay,” she shouted. “It’s not late. You’ll be okay, won’t you?”

  “Well ... yeah ... I ...”

  “I’ve left a message so that Julie won’t have to worry. Hopefully that jerk journalist has gone. Maybe we should sit outside this time.”

  “No. You att
ract too much attention.”

  She took my hand. “Well, we don’t know anywhere else, do we?”

  “Jesus, Abbie.”

  “Oh, Jesus Abbie. Look. We will probably never see each other again. It might just be, my lover, that our stars are crossed.”

  And so we held each other again and I tried to ignore the world around us as we bounced along in that rattling, rusty little machine.

  We didn’t get to the Continental. A jeep from the embassy pulled our driver over. A thickset sergeant in formal uniform, strode back to where we sat together watching. I recognised him as he approached.

  “Hi, Chuck,” said Abbie.

  “Miss Klein.” He looked at me with open contempt. “You’re to come with me, ma’am.”

  “I left a message. I won’t be long.” He didn’t answer her. He eyed me again and then looked at her patiently. “Okay?” Abbie asked.

  “Now, ma’am. Please.”

  “Well, can my friend come too? You see we have some things to ... to talk about and we won’t see each other again. So ...”

  “I can’t do that, ma’am.”

  “But he’s with me ... He’s...”

  “Now, please, ma’am. Please.”

  “Can you give us one minute? One minute, Chuck. Please?” He stood back no more than a metre from the back of the Lambretta. Its engine seemed even louder than before but the driver had no complaint this time.

  She took my hand again. “Can I write you?”

  “Ah, yeah. Of course.”

  “Where? What’s your unit?”

  “Thirty-seven Transport Platoon. Australian Logistic Support.”

  “Thirty-seven Platoon. Logistic Support. Vung Tau.” I nodded. “I’ll write,” she said. “Surely I can write you.”

  “Okay, ma’am. In the vehicle, please.”

  She climbed out. “Bye. I’ll let you know what happened. Okay?”

  “Yeh. Bye.” The sergeant made a small movement to indicate that time was up and she moved away with him. “Abbie,” I said. She stopped. “Take care. You know. Tomorrow and everything.”

  She nodded as the young sergeant said something to the Lambretta driver. When she was seated in the jeep he strode back to me. I wondered if his marching gait was exaggerated for effect. His uniform looked too tight for his thickset body and beads of sweat lined his brow as he ducked his head beside the vehicle’s rusty roof. Even his face seemed muscular.

  “From what I’ve heard about them, I don’t much like Australians. They sneak around the jungle like the goddamn VC. They’re too quick to pull out and too scared to use their ammo.” He looked up at the jeep. “That girl’s an American. You stay right away from her, y’hear.”

  I didn’t say anything but I met his stare. I reckoned I knew more about that girl than he did.

  I wasn’t really that late getting back to the Canberra but the soldier on guard duty didn’t like my story, until I mentioned Killer.

  “Am I glad to see you, mate.” Dressed in civvies Killer was brushing his hair in the bathroom mirror. “I stayed in specially to make sure you got back alright. Where were you? I went back there twice looking for you. Second time it was bloody dark.”

  “We went into the orphanage. And then got a Lambretta.”

  “You went into that building? Determined little bit a’ gear, your girlfriend, isn’t she? Well I’m glad it was just an orphanage and you’re alright. Was the baby there?

  “Yeh.”

  “And what’s gunna happen? Did she take it?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Well what have you been up to then, old son? That embassy woman insisted we go. What a bitch. I would have been back earlier to get you but she made me stop to get street names, where they’ve got ’em. And when we got back to the embassy she gets out of the Land Rover, after I’ve driven her back, and says, ‘Now go back and get the lovers before they do something they regret, or one of them regrets.’”

  “Which one?”

  “She didn’t stipulate. But I reckon it was you.” I cursed Julie Shields. Killer laughed. “Mate. The feeling is mutual, let me assure you. It is my considered opinion that she would gladly have your gonads if she could.” He took a small pair of scissors from his kit and began trimming his moustache. “Anyway, can I recommend a local bar where you can lose yourself in cold beer and the loveliest ladies this town has to offer. You seem a bit down again.”

  I declined.

  “No? Could be the best thing for you. And what about your reputation? I’ve heard you truckies like to give the piss a very serious nudge, given the opportunity.”

  I began undressing for a shower, paying him scant attention, coming to terms with the probability of never seeing Abbie again.

  “Speaking of which,” he went on, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. A guy I know got posted to Vung Tau. I did driver training with him at Puckapunyal. Henry Mollineau. They called him Moll.”

  That got my attention. “He’s in my platoon. Same hut.”

  “Yeh? I didn’t know him well, but everybody knew of him. Remember at Pucka, theythreatened us with driving lawnmowers for the rest of our nasho if we weren’t competent on the trucks? It was all crap of course but the sergeant, old rough nut named Doyle. Remember him? He told Moll the only way he’d avoid two years on the mowers was to beat him in a drinking competition at our last night piss-up.”

  “And did he?”

  “Well, he’s not pushing lawnmowers for a living. Now I bet Moll’d take up the offer of a night out in Saigon.”

  “I’m sure he would. But not for the girls. He doesn’t like the bargirls much.”

  “No. I don’t see him as a ladies’ man.” Killer pulled his head back from the mirror to examine his handiwork, and seemed pleased.

  “It almost got him into trouble one night in Vung Tau, with an American.”

  “Yeh? What happened?”

  - 0 -

  Formerly a bank clerk in Sydney, Moll Mollineau had almost failed the call-up medical because of his weight. At school, and for a couple of years beyond, he rowed and played low level rugby, but it was more about the social scene than the sport itself. The young doctor conducting his medical had been a rower himself and liked this recruit’s attitude if not his fitness. Most people did, even the NCOs at basic, including the sergeant who told him, “I’m gunna work you so hard, Recruit Mollineau, by the end a’ this little holiday camp you’ll look like a fuckin’ pull-through!”

  In which Moll only saw humour. In Vung Tau he was famous for his performances, especially in the boozer, and had drunk so much beer since his arrival nine months earlier that he could no longer button his shirt. You needed your characters. Al Stanley, Crazy Al, was a crack up, but at the same time he stirred up tensions with all his ‘give peace a chance’ raving. Moll settled everyone, took the bitterness out of the laughter.

  On that night in town when he upset an American, his sense of humour saved him. He had stood up at our table to order drinks and one of the girls with us, a particularly young one, laughed out loud. “Heh. You have baby san in your belly.”

  Moll turned on her and looked furious the way he could. “You cheeky little harlot! No more Saigon fucking tea for you!”

  An American at a table next to ours turned. The girl had shown no ill feeling, might even have understood Aussie humour better than the GI, but he felt a need to defend her. “There’s no need to talk to the girl like that.” He looked unhappily drunk, more troubled by something personal than concern for the girl’s honour. “You should show more respect.”

  Moll was still standing. The girl grinned at his tee shirt, stretched beyond all proportion. “Oh, I’ve shown her respect. I’ve shown her enough respect tonight for her to go out tomorrow and buy a new bike for everyone in the family.”

  The GI looked at the smiling girl and some of his chivalry died. “Say. Where you guys from anyhow?”

  “We’re from Australia, mate,” Barry Love told him.


  He frowned hard. “Ss … stralamite? That in Texas?”

  “No. It’s in the Pacific.”

  “And the Indian,” someone from WA shouted.

  “Indian? Never can figure Indian names.”

  “You go to Honolulu and turn right,” said Moll. “ ’S’got a big red rock in the middle of it. You can’t miss it.”

  The American watched Moll so long and hard that we thought he might start something. But then the girl caught his attention again. He seemed to accept that he was caught up in a lost cause and turned away, until Moll invited him to join us.

  By the end of the night he was laughing with us, and then stumbling away with the same girl, turning as he did. “Say, Moll. Just where you guys from anyway?”

  No one tried to tell him again. Why spoil the joke? And by then he was one of us.

  “Goddamn Indians,” he laughed as the girl led him away.

  Part 4

  ‘Leaving on a jet plane’